Candice was horrified. She understood, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. She was overwhelmed with relief when his wife appeared with a teat of buckskin and a gourd of milk. “Thank you,” Candice said, and began feeding the baby.
He is a greedy boy, she noted, fascinated. Like his father, she thought tenderly. She glanced at Cochise. “Will Datiye reject him even now?”
“I do not know,” Cochise said. “You may tell her I extend my protection until the day we leave this stronghold. With the help of the gods, that day may never come.” He seemed to be slightly amused. He turned and walked away.
After the boy had fallen asleep, Candice stood, the older woman assisting her. Cochise’s wife sent his son with them, carrying the rest of the milk and the teat. Candice wondered what Datiye would do. She found herself hoping fervently that she would accept her own child.
Datiye was on her knees, slicing wild onions and tossing them into a pot as if she hadn’t given birth that day. When she saw Candice and her son she went very still. Her face turned white. “What have you done?”
“I won’t let you kill him,” Candice said, rocking the sleeping baby. He was still wrapped in her petticoat. “He needs his mother. Will you take him?”
Tears came into Datiye’s eyes. Candice was afraid to trust her, but when Datiye held out her arms, she handed the baby to her. Datiye clutched him to her breast and began to weep silently.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
He was as tired as the rest of the war party, but his mood was low, while everyone else was jubilant. They had captured the wagon train of supplies. They had lost two warriors, with several more wounded, but the whites had lost five times that number. The warriors were elated. Jack knew better. If every time there was an engagement the Apache lost a man or two, in no time they would have too few warriors left to fight. It saddened him immensely.
And he was angry with himself and torn up inside.
Jack was rigid with self-loathing. Nahilzay was lucky to be alive—and had he been shot, it would have been Jack’s fault. His fault for hesitating. There was no place in battle for a man whom his friends could not trust to come instantly to their aid. No place at all. His hesitation had almost cost a great warrior his life.
He was realizing his priorities might be confused. It was a difficult understanding, one he fought. He still felt that his duty lay with the Apaches. But he knew he was worthless to them it he could not conduct himself bravely and ruthlessly in battle.
The black was tired, and walked in a subdued manner through the camp. There was much rejoicing all around him, but Jack was in no mood for a celebration and had no intention of taking part. He looked forward to seeking solace in Candice’s arms. He would be happy just to be with her. He spotted her the minute hisgohwahemerged into view amid the other lodgings.
She saw him too, and his heart leapt at the excitement that crossed her face. She dropped what she was doing and came rushing toward him, half running. He urged the black forward, then jumped off. “Foolish woman,” he cried, grabbing her. “Don’t run!”
“Jack!” She threw her arms around him. He smiled, holding her tenderly. Embracing her was awkward now that she was so large.
“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, after he had kissed her thoroughly.
“Fine. Jack—” The baby’s loud wail cut her off.
Jack started and stared toward thegohwah. Then he looked at Candice.
“You have a son,” she said, regarding him closely. “A beautiful boy.”
Jack sucked in his breath. The boy was quiet now. “Is—are they both all right?”
“Now they are,” Candice said enigmatically. “Why don’t you go see them, because afterward I intend to give you a piece of my mind.” She glared at him.
He ignored the threat and hurried forward and into thegohwah. He stopped short at the sight of Datiye nursing the baby. She met his gaze and smiled softly. Jack strode forward and stared down at his son. An overwhelming sense of love flooded him.
“His eyes are so pale,” he said, startled. And then he felt joy, for he knew the boy had to be his.
“Like his father,” Datiye said.
Jack studied him. His skin was swarthy, and the few wisps of hair were blue-black. He felt a sudden grimness—the boy was too obviously a half-breed. He remembered all the times he had been called such, and how he had hated it. It would be a painful cross for his son to bear, one he wished he could spare him, but knew he couldn’t. “He has a healthy appetite,” he remarked. He touched the boy’s silky head. The baby seemed to look at him, while still sucking greedily. Jack smiled.
“We will call him Shoz,” he said. “Little Shoz.” He looked at Datiye. “He is beautiful. Thank you.”
Datiye hesitated. “He is a crybaby, husband.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “How so?” He knew very well what happened to crybabies, and didn’t understand. If his son was a crier, why was he alive?
Datiye hesitated. “Candice would not let him be killed. She fought for him. I—I let them take him away. But she saved him. It is to her you should give thanks.”
Jack was stunned. He couldn’t believe it; in fact, he didn’t. “Are you sure?”
